Hearts of the Ocean
by Evelyn Night
Summary: After her ship wrecks on the way to Port Royal, Charlotte is saved by none other than Davy Jones. Determined to reach Port Royal and her fiance, Charlotte tries to ignore the pressing thought that maybe, Davy Jones isn't such a devil after all.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the POTC movie characters. And I probably never will. The Pennington family is mine, and they're pretty much the only characters that are.

* * *

The heavens were ripped asunder as rain poured from the clouds, swallowed by the Caribbean Sea and beating harshly the decks of a large ship that had the ill fortune of sailing into the storm, unaware. The vessel was violently tossed about by towering waves and fierce winds that tangled and tore the sails from the spars.

On deck, a young woman rushed out from her cabin, her raven locks loose as they tumbled down her back, though she was otherwise dressed and presentable. Within moments, she was soaked by the rain that pelted down mercilessly. As a wave crashed over the decks, she was swept off her feet, and carried across the wooden floorboards where she was saved an untimely demise by the railing.

"Charlotte!" a voice exclaimed. An older gentleman made his way to the young woman on feet that were accustomed to the rage of storms. He took her by the elbow and helped her stand. "Return to your cabin immediately! This is no place for a young woman!"

"The rocking is too great for me to rest at all; I would rather make myself useful!" she shouted, her words vying with those of the howling wind, cracking sails, and monstrous waves.

The man stared at the young woman. Determination filled her eyes, and he knew she would not be swayed. "Go down to the pumps!" he ordered, though several men were already there. Help was truly needed to free the sails, but he'd not have her scaling the ratlines dressed as she was, and needed so dearly in Port Royal. He dashed for the quarter deck as someone called for help there.

Charlotte stared after him, speechless as the wind whipped her hair about her face. To be told to work the pumps — two men could easily manage the task — when the mast themselves could be felled, was utter lunacy.

While one hand gripped the railing for balance, the other reached into her pocket. Charlotte revealed a small knife, the handle heavy and made of gold. The nicks and dents in both handle and blade attested to the fact that the dirk was a tool, not a mere ornament.

She looked around the ship, until her eyes rose aloft. Crewmen were busy hacking at ropes, freeing the mangled sails. By chance, her gaze fell on the bowsprit, dipping into and rising out of the waves, the flying jib tangled around it. Slowly, gripping the railing for support against the swaying and the waves, Charlotte made her way to the bow. Lifting her skirts, now heavy with water, she climbed over the railing and sat on the forepeak with both legs over one side of the beam.

As she leaned out to cut the ropes, the ship dipped and the bowsprit plunged into the water. The sea rose up to Charlotte as she lost her balance and fell forward. Panic swelled in her as she frantically grasped for the forepeak, her hand slipping on the wet wood but catching herself on the ropes. A wave crested at her waist, and then another at her chest. She used all of her upper-body strength to hoist herself back up on the forepeak.

Due to the tautness of the ropes and the sharpness of the blade, Charlotte easily sliced the rope and loosed the sail, which madly unwrapped itself from the wood. As she pocketed the knife, the sail lashed out and whipped her from the forepeak. Before she realized what was happening, Charlotte was hurled into the hungry sea, the waves swallowing her as the weight of her dress pulled her to the bottom of the ocean.


	2. Chapter 2

A tall seaman, more sea than man, leaned against the railing as his ship stopped parallel to the fresh wreckage of a ship. Caught in the storm which had abated only moments earlier, the unfortunate schooner had finally impaled itself on a coral reef not far off the coast of Port Royal.

With a sly grin, the creature of the ocean looked over to his first mate. Limping on the crab leg that served as his right leg, he walked the length of the deck, scanning the remains of the once glorious ship. "Mister Maccus! Find the survivors. Take what ye can," he ordered with a deep, Scottish accent. Then, something from the corner of his eye commanded his full attention.

With slender arms limply grasping a piece of debris, the body of a young woman bobbed with the now placid waves. Her long hair gracefully, if not slightly eerily, flowed about her in the water in a manner which resembled seaweed. As the engrossed seaman watched her for any sign of life, a wave pushed the wood from beneath her still arms, and the woman's body began to slip under the surface. He dived in.

While his men were still plundering the ship, the seaman took the young woman's body aboard. Her hair was now matted against her seemingly flawless — though tanned — skin, a tone much richer than that of the wealthy English socialites who hid behind lacy parasols to keep their strawberries and cream complexions. Her small, berry colored lips were slightly parted to reveal perfectly-aligned, pearly white teeth. She was clothed in naught but her undergarments, which allowed him to feel her slender, well-toned form through the thin material. Who was she, this woman with the complexion of one who loved the sun, with the body of one accustomed to light labor, but with the undergarments of the wealthy and the regal beauty borne into only those of good breeding? The loud, raucous cajoling of the crew interrupted his thoughts.

"Wot'll we do wit' 'e survivors, Cap'n?" Maccus asked. Kneeling on the deck were thirteen men, their hands bound behind their backs. Behind each prisoner stood a crewman, barely recognizable as human, each more hideous than the last, each bearing a weapon of some grisly nature.

The captain turned, the girl's body still in his arms. At the sight of her, many of the prisoners attempted to rise, only to be shoved back to the deck. He studied the faces of each, and asked their names. When he had interrogated every prisoner, a look of dissatisfaction crossed his face. He looked to his first mate. "There _are _no survivors."

Charlotte's eyes slowly fluttered open. She saw the soft glow of candles, but they offered little light. She heard the familiar creaks and groans of a ship; she smelled the sea. She felt the softness of sheets against her body, and the light pressure of a pillow beneath her head, but only through the clammy, cold wetness of her undergarments.

She immediately pulled the sheets up to cover her, and sat up. A pounding headache followed the swift movement. Where was she? As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw the silhouette of a table covered with what appeared to be maps and charts. A few chairs reposed near the table, and some chests were scattered about the room. At the far end of the cabin, near the back of the ship, a large organ rested beneath even larger windows. There was very little to reveal much about the owner of the cabin, except that it most likely belonged the captain, which Charlotte discerned from the sheer size.

Pushing the now damp covers from her body, Charlotte swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Planting her feet firmly on the wood, which groaned under her weight, she slowly crossed the floor. Her hip bumped the edge of the table, and she heard something clatter to the ground. A few musical notes issued from the object, and Charlotte groped the floor for the wayward item. Her hand touched cold metal, and she grabbed a candle to inspect the piece: a locket of silver, or perhaps white gold. Did it belong to a woman, or was it perhaps a gift to the captain from a lover? She gently replaced the trinket on the table, and scanned the room for the door.

It — swelled with sea water — would not budge in its frame. However, motivated by her determination to find life other than that which came in the boring forms of ubiquitous barnacles, Charlotte would not relent. Finally, it opened, moaning loudly as it did so.

She crept out onto the deck, the sky now cloudless and speckled with stars. A bright, radiant moon illuminated the ship's deck. A light sea breeze sent chills up her spine. As Charlotte turned her eyes from the sky to the ship, she could see crew members at work: the coxswain at the wheel, some able-bodied seamen with holystones, a few at silent work as they mended sails. But, what puzzled her was the observation that they didn't seem quite human. However, she knew that was impossible; her eyes were merely playing tricks on her.

"Well, well, well. Wot do we 'ave 'ere?" a deep voice snickered from behind.

Charlotte let out a squeak of surprise and turned to see a rather foul-looking beast, a man with the head of a . . . hammerhead shark? Her eyes widened as she stared, which caused the crew member to laugh.

"Looks like Cap'n found a live one, an' a pretty one at 'at!" he grinned, as a few curious sailors gathered to see the excitement.

Charlotte looked around her. She was now encircled by various creatures, each looking less human than the last. The smallest one was still much larger than her. As she remembered her knife, Charlotte reached down to her pocket, but a strong hand belayed the action.

"'E should've kept a better eye on you. Now, you're—"

"She's _what?_" a voice challenged. The erratic, loud footfalls of one who'd lost a leg sounded across the ship.

The crew parted as a seaman garbed in black approached Charlotte and the beast who held her. The latter immediately released his grip on Charlotte, but she, eyes widening even more as she took in his crustacean-like appendages and octopus-like head with its continuously-moving tentacles, found herself shrinking back to the protection of the shark-man.

The most recent creature in the drama turned his cold eyes from his crew member to the frightened girl. The moon reflected itself in her eyes, in which he could see both disgust and sheer terror, a reaction that he was accustomed to, but one that, from her, disturbed him nonetheless. Feeling the crew's eyes on him, he snarled. "Back teh work!"

As his disappointed crew dissipated, the captain returned his attention to the young woman. She was still dressed in only her undergarments, and still as vulnerable as ever. "What were ye thinkin', comin' out dressed like that? They may not be entirely human, but I can assure ye that they still have their manly needs," he snapped, then realized that she had no other clothes, and was probably only curious as to what lie on the other side of the cabin door. His features visibly softened. "Come along, now," he coaxed, motioning for her to follow with his left hand — a crab claw.

Charlotte balked. Her eyes strayed from the claw to his eyes, the blue-green shade of the Caribbean shallows.

"I'm not goin' to hurt ye," the seaman said.

She decided she had no choice but to follow him. Timidly, she walked behind the man back to the cabin from whence she had emerged moments earlier. Some of the candles had been extinguished in a draft. As she closed the door slowly behind her, her host relit the wicks.

Watching him with a curious eye, she kept on hand on the doorknob, ready to flee if necessary. But, where exactly would she run? Certainly not to the welcoming arms of the lecherous crew. "W-Who are you?"

The man stopped and turned to face her. "Ah, so ye can speak. I'm 'Captain' to ye an' everyone aboard this ship." He continued to relight the candles.

"What . . . What are you to everyone _not _on this ship?" Charlotte ventured.

Captain turned again to face her. Charlotte now noticed that his _tentacles_ were used to strike the matches, not his hands — or rather, his hand and claw. He faintly grinned. "Davy Jones."

Charlotte frowned slightly. _Davy Jones? _ The name sounded vaguely familiar. It was a name she associated with her father. Her heart skipped a beat at the thought of her father — was he dead or alive? — but she concentrated on the name. Then, it came to her. _Davy Jones. Devil of the Seven Seas. Captain of the _Flying Dutchman.

Davy grinned as her eyes widened, once more, with realization. He was accustomed to that, too. The sudden fear that struck a man upon learning who stood before him, upon learning who decided his fate on the seas. "Aye, Lass. An' what be _yer _name?" He limped over to the table and there deposited the box of matches. Still, she remained silent. "Ye have a name, don't ye?"

Charlotte froze under the scrutiny of his gaze. Even in the candlelight, and now the moonlight, which filtered through the barnacle-covered windowpanes, she could see the pale colors of his irises. "Charlotte," she whispered, in a barely audible voice.

"Charlotte, he repeated, as though testing her name to judge whether or not he approved of it. He nodded.

"How . . . did I come to be in this state?" Charlotte asked, emboldened once more. She gestured to her state of dress, or lack thereof.

"That was how I found ye," Davy replied. He met her disbelieving eyes with a stone-serious look of his own.

Charlotte frowned again as she tried to remember. She recalled the rain, her battle with the flying jib, being tossed into the sea, the dark water around her as she was pulled down, cutting her dress away with her knife, kicking to the surface. . . . "Oh." She blushed. "What of the _H.M.S. Valiant?"_

"Sunk."

"Her crew?" A pause. "What of her crew?"

"Dead."

"All of them?"

"Aye."

Charlotte felt a pang in her heart at that confirmation. She looked at the box of matches. The candlelight glinted off the nearby locket, which Davy pocketed nervously. There was a brief silence. "How far are we from Port Royal?"

"We've put her to our rudder."

"I do not wish to be a burden."

"Ye aren't."

"I have business in Port Royal; it is of utmost importance."

"Family?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"A lover?"

Charlotte was not certain how to respond. True, she was betrothed, but she'd never met the man, and honestly did not care to. "Yes." To disguise her discomfort, she began to walk around the other side of the table, opposite Davy.

"Now yer lyin'."

"I most certainly am not!"

"Yes, ye are."

"How would you know?"

"Ye don't love him. I don't see it in yer eyes."

He had called her bluff, and the satisfied look on his face told her he knew. Her mind raced for something to say in retaliation, anything at all. "Well . . . Well, what would _you _know about love, anyway?"

Her caustic remark struck a chord deep inside of him. He approached her, countering her step for step as she retreated. When her back was finally up against the wall, he leaned down until their faces were mere inches apart. "More than ye'll ever know," he hissed, before he stormed out of the room.

She irritated him more than he cared to admit, more than anyone he knew, and he barely knew her at all. Not to mention the fact that he knew a lot of people. He felt a twinge of remorse for keeping her from Port Royal — what if she really _did _love him? — but he had business to attend to, and he was not going to take a detour.

Charlotte felt the seconds tick by at an amazingly slow rate. Where had he gone? She realized that she had, perhaps, spoken a bit out of turn, but he had upset her. Not that that was a good excuse to lose her temper.

With a light sigh, Charlotte slid down the wall to the floor, not having moved from her spot. She pulled her knees to her chest and folded her arms across the tops of her knees. And waited.

When Davy returned to his cabin, he could not see Charlotte; at least, not immediately. He set the large trunk he'd been carrying on the floor. When he turned to leave, he finally spotted her. She was exactly where he'd left her, but now curled up on the floor. Asleep.

He knelt down and gently lifted her into his arms, with one arm behind her knees and the other behind her neck. In her sleep, she turned her head towards him, and rested it against his chest. The sensation made his muscles tense, and he almost dropped her.

Davy gingerly laid her down on the bed. She murmured something in her sleep, but it was indecipherable. He studied her for a moment longer, then strode over to his organ. He wearily sat down. It was time to release the pent-up emotions swirling about his head.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I do apologize sincerely for the lack of updates, which you may attribute to the evasiveness of my muse, or perhaps the crash of my desktop. Or perhaps you could dismiss all of the above and simply be angry with me for stopping at chapter two. Either way, I do apologize and I'm currently rewriting the outline for this story . . . it will most likely change as time progresses.  
Also! Yes, I am still working on the whole Scottish accent bit . . . it's not exactly my forte. Also, I've changed the spelling of "Davey" to "Davy," which seems more common amongst the readers here.

* * *

"_I thought you would be pleased." The satisfaction in Lord Pennington's voice overshadowed any inkling he had about his dutiful daughter's unhappiness. "Lord Beckett is a fine man and you will make a suitable match. He has great influence in the realm. He is more than capable of seeing to your needs; you would never need to fear. . . ."_

_Lord Pennington's voice drifted into the background as Charlotte's mind wandered. At twenty, she was a bit past the conventional marriageable age, and the fact that she was perfectly fine with her status had caused quite a scandal among London's socialites. Suddenly, her father's words again captivated her attention. "Port Royal?"_

_Lord Pennington frowned disapprovingly at his daughter. "Have you not been listening? Lord Beckett was recently given the position of governing Port Royal. I received word that he has settled in and would like you to join him."_

_Charlotte blinked as her father's words registered in her brain. Her mouth suddenly seemed quite dry, and her brain had ceased functioning. After a moment, she managed a soft, "Oh." Then, gathering her wits about her, she forced a smile into place. "Splendid. When am I expected?"_

"_We will leave as soon as possible – tomorrow, in fact." _

Charlotte awoke with the strangely sick feeling that accompanies unpleasant dreams. Momentarily disoriented, the memories of the storm and the otherworldly events that followed quickly flooded her consciousness. The burden of it all seemed to crush the very life out of her, and she sat up as though it would relieve the pressure.

Her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, though her vision was limited solely to discerning darker from darkest. For a few minutes, she sat in silent debate with herself. In the end, her curiosity lost to her sense of self-preservation, and she remained seated on the bed.

* * *

The stars were still shining brightly when Davy awoke, but that was hardly unusual. What was unusual, however, was the fact that Charlotte was fully awake and staring at him in a most unsettling manner. Once she realized that he noticed her, she stretched her legs over the side of the bed and placed her hands in her lap. Judging by her stiff motions, he assumed that she'd been in the same position for a great deal of time.

"Captain," Charlotte began, "If you decline to return me to Port Royal, then I must ask what you intend to do with me." She firmly clasped her hands together to steady her trembling digits – did she really want to know what his intentions were? An image of a watery grave popped into her mind, and she dismissed it just as quickly. "I will not be a burden," she softly added for good measure.

Davy eyed the woman before him. No, she certainly did not appear to be a burden . . . on the eyes. But, as his eyes roved over her slight figure, frail and defenseless in its femininity, he wondered if he perhaps a death at sea would have been less miserable. She would not last long among his crew. However, there was something about her – a cultured lady traveling to meet a love in Port Royal – that made him want her to reach her destination. "We'll be near Port Royal soon enough. In the meantime, I've ordered Bootstrap Bill to watch over yeh. I'll not have a repeat of last night's scene on my ship."

"I understand," Charlotte nodded.

"Good. There're some dresses an' what not in that chest over there," Davy said, pointing to the chest he'd brought in the night before. "I believe they're yours."

Charlotte's brow furrowed in confusion. "My belongings went down with the ship; everything was claimed by the sea."

"Yeh forget I am the sea," Davy replied over his shoulder as he strode to the door. "Yeh'd best get dressed before Bootstrap comes."

As soon as the door closed behind her, Charlotte set to rummaging through her trunk. She quickly realized that it was the trunk from her cabin, which contained an odd assortment of various belongings she deemed precious. Though most of her possessions were waterlogged, she managed to find a few gowns at the bottom that were reasonably dry.

Allowing the trunk lid to open the entire way, she laid her books on the surface to dry. Once she was confident that her books were salvageable, Charlotte slipped into a gown of dark blue. The bodice was trimmed with a thin length of white lace, and the sleeves with wide white lace that fell from slightly above her wrists to her palms.

Lifting the gold-filigreed vanity mirror to her face, Charlotte noticed unhappily that it was cracked. _Still, it could be worse, _she thought as she propped it on the lid. She then began the arduous task of working her comb through her salt-encrusted hair.

No sooner did Charlotte finish styling her hair into a fairly decent chignon than a knock sounded at the door and she was greeted by the sight of a man – at least, he appeared to be a man, save the starfish at his right temple. And the mussels that sprouted from his jaw. Not to mention a complexion reminiscent of hers the first time she sailed through a storm.

"Good morning, Miss Charlotte," the man said before she could speak. "Name's William Turner – Bootstrap Bill, or Bootstrap, if you like," he said in the nervous fashion universally adopted by men when addressing an attractive or intimidating female.

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance," Charlotte replied with the slight curtsy to which she was accustomed. She smiled shyly at the man with a kind voice and a tone as weary as his cursed body.

"You must be starving," Bootstrap said as his eyes worriedly took in her fragile frame – or was she usually so thin? "Some food was salvaged from your ship. Perhaps you'll find something to your liking." He paused to study the woman, and sensed the apprehension that filled her. "Cap'n ordered the crew to stay away from you, if that's what's worrying you."

"Oh." Faint color tinged Charlotte's cheeks as she lowered her eyes to the ground, feeling slightly as though she carried the plague.

"I didn't mean it like that," Bootstrap amended. "But Cap'n doesn't think you should be out on deck alone."

"Of course," Charlotte quickly nodded as she attempted to cover her embarrassment. "Would you be so kind as to show me to the galley . . . Bootstrap?"


	4. Chapter 4

Though Bootstrap hardly gave a second glance to his surroundings, Charlotte thought her neck might snap from the quick glances she stole as she meekly followed. The curious marine fauna that had taken up residence in every available space was not an ordinary occurrence; however, neither was salvation at sea performed by unholy men with cephalopod features. The ship could not even be likened to something from her wildest dreams – truly it was in a class all its own.

A dank smell of must and rotting timber permeated the air, and though the planks beneath groaned at every footfall, Charlotte found that they were remarkably strong. On occasion, her curious eyes forgot the floor beneath her, and she slipped briefly on the wet wood. Bootstrap never seemed to have that problem as he led her down to the galley – but perhaps that was a perquisite of being cursed. Or, perhaps it was that he wore sound boots, while she wore footwear of a far less practical nature.

Charlotte entered the dimly-lit galley with more than a little apprehension. The lone lantern swaying precariously from the beams above did little to dispel the shadows in the aged room – but Charlotte realized that was perhaps a blessing.

A few barrels and chests reposed openly on one of the waterlogged tables, and Bootstrap handed Charlotte a lit candle he'd procured from somewhere or another. The latter waited patiently in the shadows as she ransacked each barrel and chest until she'd established a fairly decent meal on a cracked plate whose cleanliness was highly disputable.

Satisfied with the victuals, Charlotte was suddenly again aware of Bootstrap's presence. "You'll join me?" she asked with a graceful motion of her hand. "I can hardly be expected to eat whilst you starve – it would be quite rude. Besides, I would be grateful for your conversation."

Bootstrap opened his mouth to explain that he had grown accustomed to the less than certainly conventional fare he was certain normally graced her gold-inlaid china, but he shut it just as quickly when he noticed the pleading, albeit hesitant, look in her eyes. "Very well."

Charlotte poured the pair a bit of red wine; she had no taste for grog or rum, and water was always questionable on sea voyages and best left for the animals aboard. As Bootstrap sat down across from her, she noticed the slowness of his motions and the fact that his skin was wrinkled as is wont to happen when submerged in water for extended periods of time. Accursedness apparently had few redeeming qualities – on the body, at least.

"You were sailing from England?" Bootstrap was the first to break the silence.

"Yes," Charlotte replied as she chased a bit of salted meat with her fork. "I used to live in London."

"Quite a long trip," Bootstrap mused. "Were you travelling alone?"

"No, my father never would have permitted that," Charlotte answered, suddenly remembering that there was no way she would even be able to give him a proper Christian burial. "He was escorting me to Port Royal."

"That's quite a distance," Bootstrap said. Sensing perhaps dangerous waters, he skillfully diverted the conversation to a detailed discussion of the _Flying Dutchman_ and her crew.

Long after the wine ceased flowing and the plates were cleared, Bootstrap and Charlotte remained in the relatively quiet galley shooting the breeze. She began to wonder how a man such as William Turner had ever become a pirate in the first place. But, she assumed that like prostitution or arranged marriages, piracy was a life one was thrown into, not a choice given. Her stomach sank at the thought of her pending marriage to Lord Beckett, and she hoped somewhat detachedly that the man would not be too upset by her delayed arrival.

* * *

Charlotte felt rather disappointed when Bootstrap left her at the door to the captain's quarters. She leaned back against the closed door, and the wet wood quickly dampened the fabric of her gown. She frowned – doors were rarely wet, even those which belonged to ships. Charlotte ran her fingers down the dark timber, and her frown deepened as rotting bits crumbled off onto her skirts.

She again surveyed her surroundings, which were much more visible due to the large amounts of light permitted by the spearhead-shaped window that rose from floor to what Charlotte surmised to be the foredeck. What appeared to be an organ comprised a great deal of what space wasn't overtaken by all manner of sea life, and its pipes extended almost halfway around the room. Various chests of assorted sizes squatted randomly about the chambers, their presence slighted by candlesticks, tables, and a spyglass – rendered useless by the barnacles growing at either lens – set about in the same apparent serendipitous fashion.

And as her naïve eyes registered the nightmare in a mind once ignorant of the supernatural, Charlotte was suddenly fully aware that she was completely awake.

A/N: I probably would have had this completed sooner had I not thought that watching select scenes from POTC 2 might freshen my memory a bit -- except that led to watching the entire film . . . and that led to watching the third film . . . and that led to watching Davy scenes from both films. . . . I do apologize for its shortness. It seemed a bit longer when I had it in Word. Hm. I'm sure I'll make up for it in chapters to come!


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